Tuesday, 4 July 2017

First Morning

by Catherine
Alexander

You tell your husband you want to
get away. You need time to think about the marriage. Two decades of living
together. He says let’s end it right now and be done. He’s angry, but he
doesn’t clench his fist.

You move out ten miles away to a
sunny apartment on the third floor facing Moon Bay. The first morning after all
the boxes have been stacked on the carpet, you look out to see a blue heron
posing, as if frozen, on a piling. You abandon the boxes and take the stairs down
to visit the heron. You say your name is Jane and you’ve just moved here. That
your sixteen-year-old daughter is furious. And that you’re afraid of being
alone.

You look around. The neighborhood seems so strange. Your mind
returns to the empty kitchen, your empty stomach. The fridge is clean, but
bare. You didn’t take time to find the closest supermarket. Right now you’d do
anything for coffee and a warm Danish.

The bay water is full of lily pads
and frogs. Cherry trees are budding. Looking up at your apartment from the bay,
you spy your bicycle on the deck where the movers have put it. You have an
idea. A short ride takes you to a little coffee shop three blocks away.

Turns out it’s a small market with a coffee stand in front where you
get a warm cinnamon roll and coffee with real cream. With the first taste, the sweetness
of the roll and the bitterness of the coffee comfort you.

In the store, you find milk, bread, eggs and a box of tissues. By
the checkout are a few white writing pads about the size of the paperbacks displayed
to the left of the counter. You set one pad among your purchases as you scan the
book covers.

The bag easily fits into your Schwinn basket. You cruise home. After
putting the eggs and butter in the fridge, you leave the bread and tissue box in
the bag and rush to sit on the deck. You must not miss the heron. Bending over
the railing, you spot the bird. Maybe you could try drawing it.

You go back in the kitchen and realize the white pad never made it
into the bag. You paid for it, but there’s no receipt. You want to go back. But
you worry about facing the clerk.

Just forget it. Don’t worry about a couple of dollars. You can
always get a better notebook, once you discover where the big stores are.

Best to attack the boxes and put everything in its place. You open a
few with a box cutter.

First box you tackle is marked “Dishes.” The busy pattern you never
liked. But you put all the plates and bowls in the kitchen cabinets and go on
to the next box, bedding that fits easily into the linen closet. Two boxes of books
spill open. If only a pad were among them.

You break up the boxes you’ve emptied and stack them in the hall by
the door, ready to go out.

But where is the recycle bin? You look out the window to check and glimpse
that blue heron again. The bird turns toward you. What an elegant, proud creature.
You’ve got to draw it. Better go back and fetch that pad.

You wheel the bike from the deck through the apartment and out the
door. Seems like a long ride down the elevator.

At the little market, the pad’s still on the counter. The others are
all gone. But the person behind the register is someone different. This one’s
old, has a grizzled beard and glum face. Maybe he’s the boss and owns the store.
Your heart begins to race as you point to the pad. The old man stares as if
you’re an imposter. You try to explain that you just paid for this notebook, didn’t
get a receipt and the other clerk forgot to include it in the bag.

The old guy doesn’t seem to understand English. You want to grab the
pad because it belongs to you. But your heart pounds and the coffee you had
earlier churns in your stomach.

In a minute there’s your chance. The old man turns around to
straighten some Marlboros on the shelf. Now go for it. Snatch the pad and run!

Pedaling back home, you turn to see if the man might be chasing you.
Makes no sense, a man his age. You arrive at your building, notebook in hand.

Up the elevator you go, through your apartment and out onto the
deck. There you find the blue heron still sitting on the piling by the bay,
right where you left it.

You pick up the pad and a pencil. But your hands tremble. Maybe the
old man has managed to follow you and is downstairs. How crazy. All for a
two-dollar notebook.

Relax. It’s only your first morning.

So you open the pad. It has no lines. Good. Your hand is still
shaky. You tell it to stop.

And finally it obeys. The pencil in your hand glides over the blank
page, creating the line of the heron’s long neck, just as it turns its head toward
you.

Hello beautiful, you say. Don’t move until I’m through.

* * * * *

"First
Morning" was first published in When Women Waken, Fear Issue,
Fall 2015.

Catherine
Alexander, Pushcart Prize nominee, has published stories in 33 literary
journals, including North Atlantic Review, Rosebud (two
successive issues), Bryant Literary Review, Rockhurst Review and
won "Jurors' Choice" in Spindrift. National Public
Radio has aired her work. Her story, “Backyards,” was performed by Jorja
Fox (Sara Sidle in TV’s CSI) in a Los Angeles Word Theatre production. She has
taught fiction and memoir at Edmonds Community College, University of
Washington, Horizon House in Seattle, writing conferences, senior centers and
to homeless groups. She now leads a private class in Seattle. Living in
Edmonds, Washington, with her dogs and a Maine Coon cat, she’s presently
laboring over a novel.

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